


ETA: 5 years

by SavageNutella46



Series: Maribat One-Shots [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Maribat - Fandom, Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Big Brother!Jason Todd, Brother-Sister Relationships, Gen, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, MariBat, Marinette is a rogue, PLATONIC THO OMG, Spoiler Alert: he gets one, rating for mild descriptions of violence at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavageNutella46/pseuds/SavageNutella46
Summary: A new Rogue surfaces in Gotham; some say they’re an old man with a scarred up face, others say they brainwash children and leave them for dead.There’s never much more than a whisper of this ruthless rumor; you’d never see them if they chose not to show themself.
Relationships: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug & Jason Todd
Series: Maribat One-Shots [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882840
Comments: 32
Kudos: 170





	ETA: 5 years

**Author's Note:**

> Nette: 17
> 
> Jason: 22-23
> 
> bloop!

You would never know unless you had the right connections, would never so much as pick up a whisper on the streets unless you knew what you knew and spoke not a word of how you knew it.

The Joker had been killed; and within his wake, a new Clown Prince of Gotham. Except they were nor a Clown or Prince. A girl, a once measly, twiggy girl from Park Row's own streets, had rose up and created the next big Rogue Identity in just a few months, laying low enough so that just the right amount of people knows who they are.

"I hear they torture traitors by forcing their hand in a tub of scorching wax." An idly standing goon whispers to another, playing with the signal jammer strapped to his back.

"I heard she likes to adopt little orphans and brainwash 'em into her servants." A girl dressed in a faux feather scarf mutters to her friend, said friend scoffing and retorting a claim of her own.

"Wrong, I heard he's an old filthy man with a scarred up face from when he was in a fire as a boy." The girl in the feather scarf snorts out a laugh.

Red Hood had caught on but not a whisper of the new Rogue on his detour through China Town, crouching back on a familiar gargoyle above the alley where his target drug dealer and his comrade stood, whispering back and forth about the new Rogue like schoolgirls.

Sure, he's heard about it, but he's had yet to catch a glimpse of the despot that had finally killed the son of a bitch who'd dug his grave in that damned warehouse seven years ago.

The drug dealer shifted in his stance nervously. "You think he'll come by?" His friend chuckles and nudges him in the shoulder at his antics.

"You're crazy, man. No way Red Hood will catch wind to a bunch of D-list drugs circling around Chinatown. We made sure to stay away from Crime Alley." Red Hood chooses at that stolen moment to drop down behind them; virtually silent. He creeped up behind what he assumed was the henchman and bashed the head of his gun into the back of his cranium, knocking him out.

The drug dealer—Martin Benzos, Jason remembered his name now—whips around and gasps, easing his hands up into a defensive stance as he took in the Red Hood, who was currently towering over him with a meaningfully blank helmet.

"Red Hood! What're you doin' here?" Martin glanced to the side and nervously chuckled. Red Hood stomps forward, hands itching to grab one of his guns and shoot him in between the eyes. The fucking bitch was trying to act innocent.

"L-listen, man, I'm sorry. I-I was just f-following orders—!" Martin cut off as Red Hood snatches the scrappy collar of his jacket hood and dangles him an inch off the ground, pushing his helmet-clad face right up in Martin's.

"Following orders? Following your own orders don't count, buddy." Martin is sweating profusely now, trembling so hard he almost shakes himself out of Red Hood's grip.

"You couldn't possibly sell this shit," Hood holds up a baggy of the laced white plaster dust acting as a shitty drug in Martins face, "—to kids and expect to get away with it. Crime Alley, or not." Hood's modulator carefully filters out the anger in his voice, sifting a collected demeanor through to the sack of shit in his grip, and making the bastard tremble under his fingers.

"I-Im sorry, dude! I won't do it again!" The son of a bitch was shooting his bloodshot eyes off to the side, trying to find a way to escape whatever Hood deemed a worthy punishment to selling intestinal blockers to the kids on the street who didn't deserve to be hooked on drugs for the rest of their life.

Under his helmet, Red Hood is seething as he grabbed one of his guns from the holsters on his hips and put it against his head. Martin whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut, muttering incoherent pleas that fell upon deaf ears.

A loud bang, and Martin slacks against his hold, head flopping forward as the blood seemed to gush out of his head wound where he'd been shot.

Only, Red Hood hadn't fired his shot yet.

"That'll teach _him_ , trying to sell to my fucking informant." An almost silent drop of feet sounds next to him, and he turns his head to take in the new sight.

Or, rather, the new and upcoming Rogue, by the looks of it.

She’s a little short to be menacing of many sorts, but if Red Hood knew a thing or two about ladies with guns, it was that you should never say it to their faces.

The Rogue—only a select few even knew her name— stands a few paces next to him, far away enough so that he'd have to move to grab her. She’s wearing oversized tinted goggles over her eyes, obscuring even the outlineof her eyelids. A black and light pink striped band attached to the goggles ran around her head.

Her outfit looks, unique, of sorts. A fashionable rendition of Valentines Day, it seemed. With deep red cargo pants, much like his own grey ones, and several little belts strewn across her waist until they melded into a gadget belt with white guns hanging off the sides in their respective holsters. Her shirt was a simple soft pink tee, with the words, "I KILLED THE JOKER" pressed on them, the soft red font conflicting beautifully with the meaning of the bolder words.

It was almost taunting how familiar she looks in those twin pigtails, but he can’t quite put his finger on the source of her presence.

"Huh, you don't look like an old, smelly man with a scarred face." Her lips twitch into a smirk, her breath hitching from the laughter she’s trying to hold back.

"I also don't brainwash orphans, but, the goons next to the subway might've not been talkin' about me that time." Red Hood snorted and relaxed his tensed spine, dropping the drug dealer to flop down in the bloody puddle at his feet while he did so. He would always appreciate good Batman slander.

"What do ya call yourself?" If Red Hood had been able to see her eyes, he was sure they would be rolling under their respective goggles.

"It's what they call me, Hood." She wasn't smiling anymore, head tilted in a vaguely disgusted expression. She couldn't see, but he raised an eyebrow in confusion anyway.

"The kids on the street," She started, when his question rang through the silence, "They call me Pixie." He blinked for a split second, and she was gone, almost as if he'd been dreaming.

Jason searches high and low, Upper East Side back down to the outskirts of Diamond District to find any traces of Pixie. But, alas, he hasn't seen her since she shot his drug dealer two weeks ago.

Red Hood loves a good chase, but inside, Jason Todd was seething with confusion. Who the hell was she? Did she kill the Joker just for the fun of it?

The more he thought, searched, asked, no, demanded information of his informants and came back empty time and time again only depleted his patience. His annoyance only grew worse when she started talking to the kids on Park Row, who had been sworn to confidentiality and stood tight-lipped when he implored about her.

Red Hood was crouching on a rooftop next to the docks, staking out a drug trade, when he saw her again.

Or, rather, she saw him and dropped down next to him in a crouch position, scanning her surroundings over to where the drug trade was set to meet in half an hour.

"You've been askin' about me." Pixie quips in a rather attention-demanding tone, pointedly kept her eyes on the docks, not even twitching her head to where he was placed next to her.

"And, yet, I still know nothin' about you." Pixie smiles, and he almost shivered from the sheer danger that seemed to be communicating to him in waves. Whoever she is, she's earned Jason's respect. In such a short amount of time, too.

"That's the point, genius. My confidentiality is paid for in care and food." She laughs bitterly at the end of it, as if she has some sort of problem with what had come out of her mouth.

"You seem mad about that." Pixie clicks the roof of her mouth with her tongue and shakes her head.

"No, of course not. It's just—you know your life's shitty when you're relying on a wanted criminal to keep living." There's an undertone of bitterness in her voice that keeps the statement from sounding anything but raw, and full of sour truth. Like Pixie almost didn't want to admit it.

Red Hood swallows. He'd never been much for emotions, despite reading books that were full of them, almost every one circling around a moral or lesson about love or relationships.

"I get that. Street rat, n' all." He gestures to himself, and Pixie nods in understanding.

"Right. I have to go. Bye, Jason." He nods in acknowledgement as she hops up and disappears into the dark of Gotham's smog.

He turns back to stare blankly at the docks that are filtering in with people, a strange feeling in his chest—

"Fuck!" As he hears her laughter ring out behind him as he whips around, searching for a hint of her presence lingering in the air, and he curses at the fact she knows his identity.

_Marinette hadn't heard planned any of this. A snap decision or two and once she regained control of her anger, she was covered in the tainted blood of her enemy and a rusty knife threatening to fall out of her violently trembling fingers._

_"—My brother!" She couldn't see past the sweat and tears mixing together past her eyes, couldn't form a single thought besides Joker and Jason, couldn't do anything except move her arms in a stabbing motion with a too-sharp object in her bloody hands._

_Joker was writhing on the floor, and, yet, the bastard was still smiling beneath all the trembling and pained grunts that poured out of his mouth. He was laughing, egging her on. And, for once, she listened to the voices in her head, stabbed harder, yelled louder, destroyed her opponent's sense of life._

_"You fucking clown! How does it feel to be a joke?" She spit in his face as Joker choked on his own blood and tried to flail his limbs for freedom._

—She'd dragged the body out of his own warehouse and into a ditch. The irony was there, and she'd known exactly what was going to happen when she'd saw him. Marinette would never consciously stop herself from hurting someone who deserved it. She had not an ounce of regret killing the Joker, and she would do it a thousand times if it meant he would never lay an eye or hand on Jason again.

There's sweat dripping down his neck as he swings his fist at another Scarecrow goon. He's been fighting for twenty minutes, trying to get into the Courthouse where Scarecrow had interrupted an already emotional hearing with his toxins.

His guns—foolishly, he only brought two— had been knocked out of his hand ten minutes ago, with no opportunity to get one last shot into a particularly insistent goon.

The goons _keep coming_ , and soon Red Hood is cornered in the alley just next to the steps of the Courthouse, a goon standing just above him blindly reaching into his pocket for a pointy syringe and jamming it into Red Hood’s neck—

It's all a hazy blur as he stumbles across what feels like soft dirt, his limbs feel like putty, everything burns. Jason catches on a lone pebble and trips to his knees, and in front of him, two pairs of sparkly shoes.

"Nettie." He smiles at the cheerful red and pink laces, one of the few staples of her bright outfits he'd always remember and cherish when they could afford it, and looks up to see her stature towering over him. He greedily takes in her adorable features, the bright blue eye that had never dulled for as long as he’d known them. One of Nettie's eyebrows are raised, a quirk she always displays when she's annoyed or angry.

"Jason," She whispers, so lowly that he can hear every tremble in her voice as it shakes with anger, "Where did my _brother_ go?"He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, eyes scanning, taking in her expression for a clue.

When he doesn't answer, Nettie takes the opportunity to crouch down in front of him and look him dead in the eyes, snarling with all the rage he'd ever heard her muster into three words, "I hate you."

"So, so much." She gets up and lands a harsh kick to his stomach.

"Is this what you've become?" Another, and, he can't remember when his little sister got so strong, despite the pain blooming behind his ribs as he keels over.

"Certainly not my brother." A few tears escape out of his squeezes shut eyes as he grunts quietly with every kick she delivers to his ribs.

"Jason, wake up." Her harsh voice comes out weird, like she's aged a hundred years in one second, but he can't open his eyes to look for the source of proof, it all hurts so much, burning all over his chest, and he grips a handful of the dirt that seems to be _all over him—_

Jason blinks.

The pain hasn’t disappeared, but subdued into an insistent thump at the back of his ribs, and when he notices what’s in front of him, his eyes lock in place, unable to move away even if he willed them to.

He's standing in the graveyard. In front of his grave. His grave is trembled and cracked around the edges, like someone struck a hammer at it and decided it wasn't worth their time after a few swings.

"You should've stayed in there." Jason whips around, and it's Bruce, standing there in his crisp suit and a deep frown on his face, several wrinkles in his forehead where he displays his disdain.

The man’s eyes are bloodshot, and tear tracks shine under the dim moonlight. If Jason were any less dumb, he would've thought the tears were for his funeral.

No, they were for his arrival.

"You were better off dead, Jason. Where no one could see you." Bruce's hand claps down on his shoulder, and he collapses to his knees under the harsh weight with a quiet grunt. Another hand grabs at his hair, yanking, so he can't do anything except stare at Bruce's sneer, his hard eyes that show nothing except the hatred he has in that moment. No affection, no familiarity, just hate.

"I regret every moment, Jason."

"Jason!" Jason gasps, his eyes shooting open, he registers the white hot pain blooming all over him. He gasps, breath hitching, and clenches his fists—

squeezes the hand in his with a death-like grip. His eyes dart to the side, where a pale arm extends out of a familiar pink t-shirt.

"P-Pixie?" Pixie is standing over him with a deep frown on her face, so different from the frown Bruce was wearing. She seemed worried.

"You were injected with Scarecrows' toxin. I found you with a bunch of fat men standing over your writhing body, talking about what to do next." Jason winced, and noted that he was laying in a medical bed, but not in a hospital.

_Dear God_ , everything was pink. Nettie would've loved this. Two medical beds lay a few feet apart from each other, empty IV bags and monitors standing next to them. Around the beds, was a standard medbay, like one he'd see in the Batcave.

"So...what's your favorite color?" She snorted and turned back to the laptop that was sitting next to his bedside on a deep red counter—but she still hasn’t let go of his hand, rubbing her thumb across his palm in a painfully familiar motion.

She isn't supposed to be here, not on this day, not even _this week_.

Marinette fidgets relentlessly with her thumbs, almost too violently as she tries not to stare holes into the gravestone in front of her. The damp dirt beneath her knees is seeping into her ancient denim jeans. It's absolutely freezing outside, the snow falling swiftly to the ground, acting as proof.

_**Here Lies Jason Todd** _

No beloved brother, loved son. An otherwise blank slate of stone, besides the four pathetic cursive words carved into the middle. A thick layer of dust coats her dry, cracked fingers as she sweeps a thumb across the smooth stone.

Jason Todd might not be in that casket, but a part of him had died and buried itself in the ground where he lay before he clawed his way out. She knew that much, watching him from afar, she watches daily as he puts hope in the children on the streets when he shoots the kneecaps of sex offenders and pedophiles. She watches as he obliterates his opponents and walks away with nothing more but a slightly more used gun or a cut.

Red Hood is not the Jason Todd she used to know, but as a sister and his number one supporter, she can't find any disappointment washing over her when she thinks of him. Only love.

"I love you."

“Nettie?” The sound of leaves crunching under a pair of boots has her whipping around and gasping.

Jason is standing right behind her, staring at his grave with clenched teeth, before his eyes flick back to her and she sees how truly aged they’ve become.

There’s a white streak in his hair now, scars, and a green tint to his once aquamarine eyes. His expression is closed off, but Marinette can see it clearly; he’s hurting inside, and it looks so raw, the emotion he’s giving her with just a look.

She knows she’s seen him yesterday, but without the helmet it’s so much more _real._

She springs up from her crouch and wraps her arms right around his middle, squeezing as hard as she can, and he squeezes back.

If a few tears slip out of her eyes and onto his shirt, he says nothing, but squeezes harder momentarily, then pulling back to look into her eyes.

“I was dead.”

“You were.” She smiles and grabs his hand, rubbing his palm with the familiar motion she had used to calm him down after a panic attack, and after he was injected with fear toxin. Jason seems to recognize the sentiment, widening his eyes and clutching her fingers.

“You’re—“

“Pixie, yes.” He seems about ready to cry as he grips her fingers even harder, and if she was any less of a woman, she’d wince.

“You really killed him?” Jason chokes, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes as he stares down at her, questioning.

She nods and smiles at him. “I love you, Jay. I would never be disappointed in the man you’ve become.” He’s grasping at her now, pulling her back into a bone crushing hug and swaying her, side to side, like he used to when their mother was sober enough to play music for them.

“I love you, too.” He whispers in her ear, and she squeezes her eyes shut, smiling so hard she can barely find the words to choke back to him, so she doesn’t.

They stay in that graveyard for hours, talking, laughing, crying, and gossiping about anything and everything, all the while, Marinette can’t believe she has her best friend and brother back after five years.

**Author's Note:**

> IM SO SORRY AGSALLSDHAK
> 
> I hope y’all liked it! Leave a comment on your way, traveler! I thank you all so much for reading!!
> 
> Jason got some fuckin explainin to do as to why he never even called? bitch was awake for five years and not a simple hello to Nettie?


End file.
